I was f***ing rubbish at being a yoove, and not much better at being a young adult, so I'm hoping to make a half-decent OAP. Most of my mates have me pegged as an old man already, having heard my warbly whistling, seen me sitting down on brick walls for a rest on the way to the shops and observed me sitting by a window with a cup of tea in my hand and a tartan blanket over my legs.
I'm planning to commute between my suburban bungelow and my cliff-top allotment shed using a miniature steam train, rather like the one at Romney Hythe and Dymchurch, which weaves between suburban garden fences (tantalising peaks through the gaps, cats on the line), through open countryside and over shingle beach. The shed will be the size of a hanger and will house a massive, never-to-be-completed sculpture built from Airfix kits, plaster of paris, soil etc. Dan Cruikshank and Adam Hart-Davis will occupy sheds either side of me, and we'll while away the hours discussing military architecture and incredible feats of civil engineering. |
